During the project the group spent an evening at the house of Palestinian writer Mahmound Shukair at which he read some of his poems in the original arabic as the other poets read their English translations. Rody Gorman has translated the short stories into Gaelic.
Bidh i dol a-mach anns a’ mhadainn gu uaigh a h-athar, agus cha bhi ìomhaigh a leannain ga fàgail fhad ‘s a tha i na seasamh an sin, ag innse dha mu na tha a’ cur dragh oirre aig Sabhal Mòr Ostaig, mun a’ cholainn aice, mu cho cealgach agus a tha cuid a dhaoine, agus cha bhi e ‘g èirigh a-mach às an t-sàmhchair shìorraidh seo. Bidh i dol a-mach anns an fheasgar còmhla ris an fhear òg, a thagh i fhìn a-mach às na fir òga gu lèir agus cha bhi ìomhaigh a h-athar ga fàgail fhad ‘s a tha i na suidhe sìos taobh ris – a h-athair a bha cho maoth, caoin sin. Tha na dealbhan nam breislich na ceann. Bidh i leagail nan sùl aice sìos – gun fhios aice carson – deur ann an cruth cridhe leònte.
She goes out in the morning to the grave of her father, and the image of her lover does not leave her as she stands there, telling him about her worries at the university, about her body, and the treachery of some people, and he doesn’t emerge from his eternal silence.
She goes out in the evening to her date with the young man, whom her chose among all the young men, and the image of her father doesn’t leave her as she sits down beside him—her father, who was a fountain of tenderness.
The pictures are confused in her head. She lowers her eyes—without knowing why—a teardrop in the shape of a wounded heart.
Cha bhi am fear a chaill cas ann an sabaid gu math searbh san teaghlach mu rud gun diù nach fhiach ainmeachadh a’ gabhail ach aon tràth gach là. Cha bhi e a’ fàgail an taighe ach anns an fheasgar nuair a bhios e a’ dol a-mach air maidean-croise agus na sheasamh na thost ann an gàrradh an taighe, gun a bhith a’ bruidhinn ri duine. Bidh e na sheasamh mar gum b’ eadh na chorra-ghritheach a’ sealltainn air grian an fhoghair gus an dèan i laighe. Bidh e dol air ais dhan t-seòmar aige leis a’ cheann aige air a chromadh agus a’ dùnadh an dorais na dhèidh. Bidh e a’ cur nam maidean-croise aige ri taobh na leapa agus bidh iad a’ dol a chadal. Bidh e a’ fuireach na dhùsgadh agus ag èisteachd gu faiceallach, a’ feitheamh gus an dèan cuideigin cnogadh air an doras air adhbhar air choreigin, air adhbhar sam bith.
That man who lost his leg in a bitter fight between family members over something petty not worth mentioning, eats one meal a day. He does not leave the house except in the late afternoon, when he goes out on crutches and stands silently in the courtyard, speaking to no one. He stands like a stork, watching the autumn sun until it sets. He goes back to his room with his head bowed and shuts the door behind him. He puts the crutches next to the bed and they go to sleep. He stays awake listening carefully, waiting for someone to knock on his door for some reason, any reason.
Leig a’ ghogaid oirre gul an dèidh dhan duine aice falbh, fad seachd là ‘s seachd oidhche gus an cuala boireannaich ann an dùthchannan fad’ às iomradh oirre agus an tàinig ceannaichean nan deur len soithichean iarainn agus glainne. Bidh a’ ghogaid a’ gabhail an aithreachais mun chùmhnant nach deach a chrìochnachadh agus i a’ coimhead air na ceannaichean a’ fàgail agus na soithichean falamh de dh’iarann agus de ghlainne gan crathadh sna làmhan aca. Aig an àm sin, bidh deòir a’ tuiteam far nan sùl aice ach cha bhi na ceannaichean a’ toirt an aire idir.
The flirtatious woman pretended to cry about the departure of her husband for seven days and seven nights until women in faraway countries heard about her, and the merchants of tears came bringing containers made from iron and different kinds of vessels made from glass.
The flirtatious woman regrets the incomplete bargain and she watches the merchants as they leave, shaking the empty iron and glass containers in their hands. At that moment, a few teardrops fall from her eyes, but the merchants do not pay any attention.
Cha bhi e ‘g innse dhi: tha gaol agam ort. Tha e toilichte spleuchdadh a-steach anns na sùilean aice agus bho àm gu àm a chorragan a shìneadh gu maoth, a’ dèanamh rèidh nan dlòthan a sgap am feasgar gun chead. Cha bhi i ‘g innse dha: tha gaol agam ort. Tha i toilichte coiseachd còmhla ris ann an sàmhchair agus a’ mhadainn an dèidh sin bidh i togail nan lorgan-coise, gus nach bi an fheadhainn a bhios a’ dol seachad cruaidh orra. Bidh i tilleadh ris an taigh, le sgùlan air a ceann, gun fhios aig duine gu dè tha i a’ cumail am falach na bhroinn.
He doesn’t tell her: I love you. He is content to gaze into her eyes and from time to time to extend his fingers gently, smoothing the tresses the evening has spread out without permission. She doesn’t tell him: I love you. She is content to walk with him in silence and in the morning she lifts up the footprints so people passing by are not harsh to them. She returns home, with a basket on her head, and nobody knows what she hides inside it.
Bidh e a’ cur a chinn air a shàrachadh na h-uchd agus a’ gul an sin gun stad agus i a’ cìreadh a corragan caola tron chùl air a bheil i cho eòlach. Sa mhadainn bidh daoine cruinneachadh far an coinnich na rathaidean. Bidh iad a’ beantainn rin colainnean boga fhèin agus chì iad, air beulaibh nan craobh, ìomhaigh air a dèanamh à feòil agus fuil fireannaich agus boireannaich, a cheann na h-uchd, a làmh na reachd air am falt gun charachadh aige, ìomhaigh, far am bi na leannain a’ tighinn còmhla gach feasgar.
He rests his weary head in her lap and cries endlessly as she strokes her slim fingers through his hair she knows so well. In the morning people gather at the crossroads. She touches their soft bodies and they can see, in front of the trees, a statue made from the flesh and blood of a man and woman, his head in her lap, his hand in his hair never moving, a statue, where lovers come every evening.
Tha ‘m balach òg agus aigeallan aige na chluais dheis is tha ‘g innse do na caraidean aige gu bheil e ga chaitheamh gus a dhèanamh air leth bho chàch. Bidh e dol a-mach anns a' choimhearsnachd agus am broilleach aige nochd, ri raspars am beulaibh nan caileagan bòidheach agus a' cur an cèill nach eil spèis aige do ghin de na fireannaich anns a' choimhearsnachd. Anns an fheasgar bidh e suidhe an taobh a-muigh bùth-glasraich na sgìre. An dèidh dhan fhear aig a bheil a' bhùth a glasadh suas bidh e na shuidhe an sin leis fhèin, a’ gabhail ceò le fàileadh annasach. Bidh e a' casadaich bho àm gu àm agus ann an guth garg bidh òran drabasta ga sheinn aige do bhoireannach àlainn sa choimhearsnachd a tha pòsta le triùir chlainne. Bidh e seinn gus an cluinn am boireannach bho uinneag a seòmair e, gun fhios aige gun d’rinn i ‘n imrich bhon choimhearsnachd o chionn trì seachdainean air ais.
That wicked boy wears an earring in his right ear and tells his companions that he wears it to set himself apart from everyone else. He goes out in the neighbourhood bare-chested, showing off in front of the pretty girls and announcing that he has no respect for any of the men in the neighbourhood. In the evening he sits outside the local grocery. After the proprietor of the grocery has locked up he sits there alone, smoking a cigarette that gives off an unusual smell. He coughs from time to time, and in a raucous voice sings a lewd song to a beautiful woman in the neighbourhood who is married with three children. He sings so that the woman might hear him from the window of her room, not knowing that she moved away from the neighbourhood three weeks ago.
Tha fios aice, bho dh’innis e dhi an sgeulachd mun leannan nach robh ‘n làthair, gum bi i ga ionndrainn feasgar air choreigin. Thèid i ga lorg a-staigh, air na rathaidean, anns a h-uile h-àite san d’rachadh iad gun freagairt fhaighinn. Tha fios aige gum bi e ga h-ionndrainn madainn air choreigin agus nach bi e comasach air a bhith ga lorg seach nach bi an cothrom aige tadhal air na h-àiteachan no dol tarsainn air an astar. Aon turas, chuala i naidheachd gun earbsa. Chaidh i a-mach a’ dèanamh trotain mar lothag gus an ràinig i taigh fad’ às agus gun de chridhe aice dol na bhroinn. Cha robh a-staigh ach an t-sàmhchair, agus bha ‘n dorchadas a’ fàs air na fraighean.
She knows, as he told her the story about tha absent lover, that she will miss him some evening. He will look for her at home, on the roads, everywhere they used to go without finding an answer. He knows he will miss her some morning and that he won’t be able to find her because he won’t have the opportunity to visit the places or go across into the distance. Once he heard an unreliable story. He went out trotting like a filly till he reached a faraway house but he didn’t have the nerve to enter. There was only silence within and darkness grew on the walls.
Chan urrainn don leanabh a’ dùsgadh a-mach à cadal sa mhadainn gu dubh a mhàthair a dhùsgadh às an t-suain aice. Bidh e dèanamh suidhe an sin faisg oirre air an leabaidh, a’ sealltainn air a h-aodann, a tha gun charachadh mar bhàrr uisge. Bidh an leanabh a bhios ag èirigh à cadal tràth sa mhadainn leis an acras, a’ sìneadh os cionn cliathaich broilleach a mhàthar gus a cìoch a tharraing a-mach às an deis’-oidhche ach cha bhi a’ soirbheachadh le làmhan an leanaibh. Bidh an cìocharan a’ tòiseachadh air gul. Bidh daoine a’ tighinn às gach ceàrnaidh agus a’ cruinneachadh a-staigh. Bidh iad a’ caoineadh fad tacain agus an uair sin a’ giùlan màthair an leanaibh gu àite anns nach eil e eòlach fhathast.
The daughter waits each evening for the six o’clock train.
She watches the passengers, who gaze from behind the windows, and in her soul is a longing for distant travel.
The father tends the little garden each evening and doesn’t raise his head to the train, which passes monotonously.
The dog lies down near the fence, and barks intermittently without moving from his place, as if this is his role in life. Then he is mysteriously silent.
The daughter, this evening, boards the train and goes off far away.
And the father, one night, dies, leaving the dog alone in the courtyard of the house.
Bidh am fear a tha ‘g obair ann am bùth nan leabhraichean a’ cur seachad a’ chuid as motha den tìde am measg tòrr leabhraichean gun a bhith a’ leughadh gin dhiubh. Tha e ‘g ràdh an dèidh na chunnaic e ‘s na chuala e na bheatha nach eil feum sam bith aige air a bhith a’ leughadh. Tha e 'g ràdh mun leisge seo: "'S e leabhraichean suarach a th' annt' air nach fhiach beachd a ghabhail.” Air na làithean-saor’ aige, bidh an duine a’ dol a-mach le mhnaoi is leis a’ chloinn air cuirm-chnuic fo na craobhan. Bidh e laigh' air a dhruim-dìreach agus a’ suathadh a bhrù le toileachas. Bidh e cur a làimhe air gualainn a mhnatha a tha na suidhe ri thaobh agus a' suathadh a droma gu sèimh gus an laigh a làmh air a màs is gun tuit e na chadal.
The man who works in a bookstore spends most of his time in the midst of a huge number of books, but he does not read a single book of them. He says that what he has seen and heard in his life makes him in no need for reading. In order to justify his laziness he says: “They are miserable books that do not deserve any attention.”
On his holiday the man goes out with his wife and children for a picnic under the trees. He lies on his back and pats his stomach with satisfaction. He puts his hand on the shoulder of his wife, who sits beside him, and gently strokes her back until his hand lies on her buttocks as he falls asleep.
Rud beag an dèidh meadhan-oidhche, bidh am fuachd ghuineach ga dhùsgadh. Bidh e a’ coiseachd a-null don uinneig, ga chàineadh fhèin gun a dùnadh mus deach e a chadal. Bidh e dol air ais don leabaidh ach a’ stad nuair a bheir e ‘n aire nach eil an cat air an leabaidh no ann an oisean an t-seòmair no fon a’ bhòrd aosta. Bidh e coiseachd air ais don uinneig a-rithist agus a’ feitheamh. Bidh dòlas a’ tighinn air agus e ga chrùbadh fhèin suas anns an leabaidh, a’ crònan: dè cho tric agus a thug mi rabhadh dhi gun dol a-mach air an oidhche! Bidh e ‘g ràdh seo agus an uair sin a’ casadaich – mar gun robh e a’ toirt tarraing air boireannach.
A little after midnight the numbing cold wakes him. He walks over to the window, censuring himself for not closing it before he went to sleep. He goes back to the bed but stops when he notices the cat isn’t on the bed or the corner of the room or under the old table. He walks back to the window again and waits. Depression comes upon him and he curls himself up in bed, moaning: how often have I warned her not to go out at night! He says this and then he coughs – as though he was referring to a woman.
| 
